The sundering, p.42
The Sundering, page 42
her weapon, and drew her stone along it with a keening shriek.
‘I think you would be disappointed, sister,’ said Lirieth. ‘If you hope to return now and receive the adulation that was poured upon Morathi, you will not receive it.’
Hellebron snarled. ‘Ingrates and sycophants, all of them,’ she said. ‘What is it that Morathi possesses that we do not?’
‘A legacy,’ said Lirieth. ‘She was Aenarion’s queen, and for that she will be forever revered. Unless you plan to marry a Phoenix King, you will need something else to excite the people.’
‘Prince Malekith has never taken a wife…’
‘I was jesting, sister. If Malekith has not married yet, it is unlikely he ever will; and if he chose a bride, there are other Naggarothi princesses far higher up the list than you or I. Whatever renown we seek, we must earn it. Was not that the point, when we set out? If you merely want to marry into reputation, you could do so at any time.’
Hellebron tested the edge of her sword, effortlessly slicing a piece of cloth. Satisfied, she used the rag to wipe a smear from the silver-inlaid blade. She saw the reflection of her face and paused, admiring herself for a moment. She knew she was beautiful, but beauty was not unique. She stared hard at herself, her ruby-red lips, the darker paint around her eyes, the whiteness of her dyed hair and pale skin.
‘Fear,’ she said.
‘What do you mean, sister?’
‘The people fear Morathi as much as they respect her. She is a sorceress without equal. Her entourage intimidates people with their strange customs and mysterious powers. Alone she is forbidding, but as a leader she embodies something far greater. We must get some followers of our own, sister.’
‘Father once said that the nature of power is twofold,’ said Lirieth. ‘On the one hand, those with power promise reward to those that serve them well; on the other, they offer punishment to those that fail to serve. What have we to offer on either count?’
‘On the second, we have all the power we need,’ said Hellebron. She held up her blade, touching its tip to Lirieth’s dagger. ‘Death. Perhaps it is time that Khaine feasted on better fare than degenerate beasts and the gristle of orcs?’
‘Why sweeten every meal with our own blood, when the whole banquet could be as succulent?’ Lirieth said with a smile, picking up her sister’s intent.
‘Tomorrow, during the battle,’ said Hellebron. ‘We will show the true desires of Khaine. We will give the army a sacrifice it shall never forget!’
The following morning heralded an inauspicious start. The sky was filled with grey, and light rain dampened the mood of the Naggarothi camp. The ground underfoot was boggy, broken by glistening rocks and deeper patches of marshland. In the haze, nothing could be seen of the mountains to the east and the wilderness was swathed in a melancholy gloom.
Scouts had returned during the night, confirming a large orc encampment to the south-east, made of rough hide tents and little else. It was hard to estimate enemy numbers, but the scouts agreed it was between ten and fifteen thousand—perhaps half a dozen tribes or more forced together by the advances of the elves and dwarfs. There was little hope that the battle would be anything of remark; a small, dispirited enemy army and the mediocre weather would provide little sport or spectacle for the battle-hungry Naggarothi.
Their calls dulled by the rain, the clarions of the Naggarothi summoned the host to arms. In lines of silver, black and purple, the elves mustered. Spear companies formed up, flanked by regiments of bowmen, and warriors armed with repeating crossbows fashioned by the dwarfs. Bolt-thrower crews dismantled their machines where they had been set to guard the camp, and trudged into place behind the main lines. Prince Malriad, commander of the army, mounted his silver-mailed charger and took his position at the head of the knights of Athel Toralien, their pennants hanging limply from their lances.
The sun broke briefly through the grey, glistening from moisture-dappled mail and the tips of spears and arrows. The dazzling effect was fleeting as the clouds thickened and the rain grew in strength. The braziers around the camp hissed, the canvas of the tents flapped and cracked; the warriors of Nagarythe stood in miserable quiet, all eagerness quelled by the filthy weather.
Riders were sent south, to spy upon the orcs and goblins. In the wake of the scouts, Malriad signalled the advance and the trumpets sounded the order to form a column. Hellebron and Lirieth took their place, flanking the standard of their company, long shields upon their left arms, leaf-headed spears in their right hands, swords and knives at their hips. They gave each other a knowing glance from beneath the brows of their silver helms.
‘It will be as we decided?’ said Lirieth.
‘It will,’ replied Hellebron.
‘What are you two whispering?’ asked Nhalek, the standard-bearer.
‘Khaine’s business,’ hissed Hellebron. ‘Mind your own.’
The company set off at a steady march, third in the column; the knights formed the vanguard, with a regiment of crossbows behind. Another four thousand Naggarothi followed, a winding snake with a spine of banners and silver spearpoints. There were no roads and the Naggarothi tramped through the long grass; the hems of their robes were soon soaking wet, boots slicked with mud.
Hellebron ignored the slapping of wet material against her legs and gripped her spearshaft tightly, hiding her excitement. If any day needed the spark of bloody spectacle, it was today.
It was mid-morning, as grey and lifeless as dawn, when the scouts returned with news that the orcs were leaving their encampment and moving westwards towards the coast. Bands of wolf-riding goblins prowled the wilderness, but they were incompetent pickets and the scouts had returned unseen. The greenskins were unaware of the army bearing down upon them.
The army was heartened by the news as it rippled through the ranks. Prince Malriad gave the order to increase the pace of the advance. The Naggarothi broke into a swift jog, the elves covering the ground with loping, easy strides, effortlessly negotiating the knots of bushes and undulations scattered across their path. The harnesses of the knights’ steeds jingled along with the knee-length mail coats of the infantry.
The rain stopped just before midday, though the sky was still overcast. The wind picked up the closer the host came to the coast, a westerly wind finally catching the flags and pennons, snapping them from their shafts while it tousled crests of blue and red and purple and black from the helmets of the elves.
The air was tinged with salt. Hellebron licked her lips, remembering the taste of blood. The ground was firmer underfoot, the mire of the wastelands giving way to rockier terrain. She saw the scouts galloping back from the south-west and it was not long before the clarions were ringing with the signal to break column and form the line for attack.
As the Naggarothi host spread to the north and south, Hellebron caught her first glimpse of the greenskin horde. The ground rose ahead and a sea of orcs and goblins thronged the slope. They clustered beneath crude standards made of skulls and bones. The largest orcs bustled through the horde, shouting and punching to establish their dominance.
Small goblins mounted on the backs of grey-furred wolves waited at the edge of the army, peering at the approaching elves from beneath fur-brimmed helms, their small fists nervously gripping the bent shafts of stone-tipped spears. More of the smallest greenskins were bullied into position at the front of the greenskin army, a ragtag mob wielding daggers, short swords, wooden clubs and round shields.
A change in the breeze brought the stench of the greenskins wafting over the elves. It was a wet mixture of dung, rotting offal and mulch, like the smell of an animal’s body left to the worms beneath a thick forest canopy. Hellebron barely reacted; she had drunk the blood of a dozen orcs and goblins and was all but immune to the disgusting taste. Around her, others were not so lucky; there were murmurs of distaste and snarled insults were spat at the filthy enemy.
At the heart of the opposing army several dozen burly orcs sat on the backs of immense boars. Their mounts were clad in scraps of spiked armour, jutting tusks sheathed with metal. The orcs wore crude jerkins of untanned hide, their green skin pocked with scars and marked with tattoos and warpaint. Angry red eyes glared at the elves; crude swords and brutal cleavers waved in defiance.
‘Look, trolls!’ Nhalek pointed to the south.
More than a dozen of the huge creatures ambled down the slope behind a mob of goblins. Each troll was thrice the height of an elf—five times that of a goblin—with a pot belly, short legs and gangling arms. Their skin was a deep greenish-blue, heads flat, ears long and tattered like a ragged parody of the elves’. The trolls wore scraps of cloth and random pieces of toughened leather, but their skin was harder than any armour the orcs could make. Clawed hands held up splintered tree-limbs and clubs made of bone studded with rivets.
At the rear of the orc army, a train of goblins was hauling a war machine into position. It was a laughably crude attempt at duplicating the catapults of the dwarfs. A ramshackle construction of red-daubed wood and splitting ropes, the stone-thrower looked as likely to fall to pieces as hurl a boulder. Under the lash of an orc overseer, the goblins hammered spikes into the ground to secure the engine, while others slowly winched down the throwing arm and yet more gathered together what rocks they could find for ammunition.
Hellebron caught a whisper travelling along the elf line from the south. A ripple of discontent swept through the ranks until it reached Hellebron’s company. The rumour was that the scouts had spotted a wyvern the night before, but today the huge creature was nowhere to be seen. Hellebron looked up and scoured the clouds for a sign of the half-dragon but saw nothing. Others were looking skywards too, uncomfortable at the thought of a wyvern dropping upon them unseen.
Not for the first time, Hellebron noticed how calm the army was before battle. While the orcs bustled and massed in anarchic fashion, the quiet ranks of elves waited patiently for the orders of their commander. Speartips made straight lines of silver, and shields created an unbreakable wall of black and red. The musicians sounded the commands, short blasts that readjusted the line as the orc army took shape, the regiments marching without haste into their new positions.
It was the calm before the storm, the cold hearth before the fire is lit.
For a moment Hellebron wondered what the greenskins were thinking, looking down the hill at the silent lines of warriors. She dismissed the thought; orcs and goblins were stupid creatures, incapable of acknowledging the majesty of the vision before them. They were equally incapable of knowing when they stared defeat in the face. Time and again the Naggarothi hosts had slain their armies and burned their barbaric villages, but still the greenskins tried to fight.
Violence was the only language they understood. They had to be made to understand: these lands belonged to the elves.
Drums rumbled through the orc and goblin horde. At first the beat was scattered, a noise without rhythm or purpose. Slowly the drums came together, banging out a slow beat which was picked up by the orcs with weapons on shields and stamping feet. Crude horns took up the call, brash and tuneless. The orcs added their voices, defying the elves with deep bellows while the screeches of the goblins cut across the bass chanting.
The beat gradually sped up, the chanting grew louder, the clamour washing down the hill in a vain attempt to intimidate the Naggarothi.
Prince Malriad broke from his knights, followed by the bearer of his personal standard. The two riders galloped along the line and took up a position facing the elf army. Malriad drew his sword, his black steed stamping and swaying.
‘We can do better than that!’ cried the prince.
‘For Aenarion!’ the elves called out in a single voice, bringing up spears and lances with a crash that momentarily eclipsed the banging and ranting of the greenskins.
‘For Prince Malekith!’
The thousands of warriors took a step, presenting their shields and spearpoints towards the orcs, the thud of feet shaking the ground.
‘For Nagarythe!’
This last was a deafening roar, a challenge cried from the throat of every Naggarothi.
Not to be outdone, the orcs increased their clamour, howling and shouting in their guttural language, no doubt hurling insults and making empty boasts. Their leaders, huge creatures taller and broader than the elves, stomped up and down in front of their subordinates, baring their long fangs and snarling.
Perhaps overcome by fear or excitement, the crew of the stone-thrower unleashed their war engine. Its arm snapped forwards. A cloud of fist-sized rocks arced into the air. Thousands of eyes from both armies followed their path.
With an explosion of mud, the stones fell to the ground at least a hundred paces short of the elven line. The wind carried Naggarothi laughter up to the orcs, infuriating them even more. The most unruly mobs headed down the slope, lumbering towards the elven line. Fearing to be left behind, other warbands hurried after until the whole greenskin army was on the move, pouring haphazardly down the slope.
With a flourish of his blade, Malriad rode back to his knights. The slap of ropes announced the firing of the bolt-throwers. Spears sped across the narrowing gap as dark blurs. Where they hit, orcs were flung back into the ranks following, spitted by the barbed shafts.
Hellebron caught Lirieth’s eye and the two sisters nodded to each other. The battle was about to begin in earnest and their opportunity would soon be lost.
The two sisters broke from the front rank of the company and walked purposefully towards the onrushing greenskins. Lirieth brought out a phial of deep red liquid and took a mouthful before passing it to Hellebron. She swallowed the rest of the drug-laced blood and tossed aside the crystal bottle. The ireleaf and venomblossom worked immediately, sending a thrill of energy through her. Her pulse raced and her breath came in gasps as the narcotic potion coursed through her system.
The Daughters of Murder cast aside their shields and spears as an astounded whispering gripped the Naggarothi army. They shed their mail coats and tossed away their helmets. Buckling their weapon belts around their semi-naked bodies, the sisters drew their swords and daggers and turned to face their comrades.
‘We need no altar to make sacrifice to Khaine,’ Lirieth called out. ‘This battlefield shall be our temple. Our war cries shall be our litany. To slay is to pray!’
‘You call us the Daughters of Murder,’ shouted Hellebron. ‘Today we offer our blood and spirit to Khaine and dedicate ourselves to the Lord of Death alone. We shall be the Brides of Khaine.’
There were laughs and a few disparaging remarks from the incredulous Naggarothi. Hellebron glared at the army, bared her teeth and snarled.
‘Let there be no doubt that we are Khaine’s chosen,’ said Lirieth. ‘We will not shelter behind shields or clad ourselves in armour, for if Khaine desires our blood, He is free to take it! Our blades shall be our defence, as Khaine teaches us. Kill and not be killed, that is the truth of Khaine.’
A lone figure broke from the lines and hurried towards the pair. It was Lethruis, swathed in a bloodstained robe. His face was twisted with rage as he bore down on the two sisters.
‘This is a disgrace!’ he snarled. ‘Cease this disrespect immediately.’
‘It is you who are the disgrace!’ shouted Hellebron.
Lirieth sheathed her weapons and seized Lethruis. The priest struggled but Lirieth’s grip was like iron as she forced him to his knees in the mud. Hellebron sprang forwards, her knife stopping a hair’s breadth from Lethruis’s throat. The priest fell still, terrified eyes fixed on Hellebron. The other acolytes ran from the army, crying out in dismay.
‘Come no closer!’ warned Hellebron.
‘Who here would risk the displeasure of Khaine?’ Lirieth cried out. ‘Who amongst the Naggarothi would turn their back on He who blessed Aenarion and has laid the gift of death into our hands?’
‘What are you doing?’ The demand came from Prince Malriad. The commander rode up to the group and swung down from his horse, one hand moving to the hilt of his sword. ‘It is you who dare Khaine’s wrath by laying hands on His priest.’
‘He is no true adept of Khaine.’ Hellebron poured all her scorn into every word. She raised her voice so that the closest warriors could hear. ‘In every battle, we lay our lives upon the edge of Khaine’s blade while Lethruis and his cronies look on.’
‘It is time that changed,’ said Lirieth. ‘Khaine demands sacrifice and all we offer Him is the sour blood of goblins and the filth of beastmen.’
‘This is madness,’ said Lethruis. ‘The enemy are almost upon us.’
‘There is no victory without Khaine’s blessing,’ said Hellebron. ‘Did not Aenarion lay himself before the judgement of Khaine when he took up the Widowmaker?’
‘We offer you a choice, priest,’ said Lirieth. ‘Your promises to Khaine must be fulfilled. Did you not say that we all pray to give up ourselves in Khaine’s name, upon the field of bloodshed? Take up a blade now and fight for the glory of Khaine and Nagarythe, or we shall offer up your blood to him this moment!’
‘You are insane, both of you,’ wailed Lethruis. ‘I cannot fight!’
‘No, you cannot,’ said Malriad. ‘You demand our obedience and offer up prayers to Khaine on our behalf. The Brides of Khaine are right; we have no need for you. The blood on our blades is offering enough.’
Hellebron looked up in surprise. Though the drugs fogged her brain, she sensed opportunity, greater than any she had hoped to create. She had thought that Lethruis would either fight—and die, for he had no skill at arms—or she would kill him herself. Here was an even better solution.
‘You are our commander, the wielder of this army, the weapon of Khaine,’ said Hellebron, thrusting her knife into her belt to place a hand on the prince’s breastplate. She could hear the orcs pounding closer. Arrows cut the air from both armies and the shouts of the wounded joined the bellows of the greenskins.
‘Quickly, now, our brave prince!’ Lirieth snapped, guessing her sister’s intent. ‘Renew your pledges to Khaine with the blood of this coward and lead your army to victory.’
‘I think you would be disappointed, sister,’ said Lirieth. ‘If you hope to return now and receive the adulation that was poured upon Morathi, you will not receive it.’
Hellebron snarled. ‘Ingrates and sycophants, all of them,’ she said. ‘What is it that Morathi possesses that we do not?’
‘A legacy,’ said Lirieth. ‘She was Aenarion’s queen, and for that she will be forever revered. Unless you plan to marry a Phoenix King, you will need something else to excite the people.’
‘Prince Malekith has never taken a wife…’
‘I was jesting, sister. If Malekith has not married yet, it is unlikely he ever will; and if he chose a bride, there are other Naggarothi princesses far higher up the list than you or I. Whatever renown we seek, we must earn it. Was not that the point, when we set out? If you merely want to marry into reputation, you could do so at any time.’
Hellebron tested the edge of her sword, effortlessly slicing a piece of cloth. Satisfied, she used the rag to wipe a smear from the silver-inlaid blade. She saw the reflection of her face and paused, admiring herself for a moment. She knew she was beautiful, but beauty was not unique. She stared hard at herself, her ruby-red lips, the darker paint around her eyes, the whiteness of her dyed hair and pale skin.
‘Fear,’ she said.
‘What do you mean, sister?’
‘The people fear Morathi as much as they respect her. She is a sorceress without equal. Her entourage intimidates people with their strange customs and mysterious powers. Alone she is forbidding, but as a leader she embodies something far greater. We must get some followers of our own, sister.’
‘Father once said that the nature of power is twofold,’ said Lirieth. ‘On the one hand, those with power promise reward to those that serve them well; on the other, they offer punishment to those that fail to serve. What have we to offer on either count?’
‘On the second, we have all the power we need,’ said Hellebron. She held up her blade, touching its tip to Lirieth’s dagger. ‘Death. Perhaps it is time that Khaine feasted on better fare than degenerate beasts and the gristle of orcs?’
‘Why sweeten every meal with our own blood, when the whole banquet could be as succulent?’ Lirieth said with a smile, picking up her sister’s intent.
‘Tomorrow, during the battle,’ said Hellebron. ‘We will show the true desires of Khaine. We will give the army a sacrifice it shall never forget!’
The following morning heralded an inauspicious start. The sky was filled with grey, and light rain dampened the mood of the Naggarothi camp. The ground underfoot was boggy, broken by glistening rocks and deeper patches of marshland. In the haze, nothing could be seen of the mountains to the east and the wilderness was swathed in a melancholy gloom.
Scouts had returned during the night, confirming a large orc encampment to the south-east, made of rough hide tents and little else. It was hard to estimate enemy numbers, but the scouts agreed it was between ten and fifteen thousand—perhaps half a dozen tribes or more forced together by the advances of the elves and dwarfs. There was little hope that the battle would be anything of remark; a small, dispirited enemy army and the mediocre weather would provide little sport or spectacle for the battle-hungry Naggarothi.
Their calls dulled by the rain, the clarions of the Naggarothi summoned the host to arms. In lines of silver, black and purple, the elves mustered. Spear companies formed up, flanked by regiments of bowmen, and warriors armed with repeating crossbows fashioned by the dwarfs. Bolt-thrower crews dismantled their machines where they had been set to guard the camp, and trudged into place behind the main lines. Prince Malriad, commander of the army, mounted his silver-mailed charger and took his position at the head of the knights of Athel Toralien, their pennants hanging limply from their lances.
The sun broke briefly through the grey, glistening from moisture-dappled mail and the tips of spears and arrows. The dazzling effect was fleeting as the clouds thickened and the rain grew in strength. The braziers around the camp hissed, the canvas of the tents flapped and cracked; the warriors of Nagarythe stood in miserable quiet, all eagerness quelled by the filthy weather.
Riders were sent south, to spy upon the orcs and goblins. In the wake of the scouts, Malriad signalled the advance and the trumpets sounded the order to form a column. Hellebron and Lirieth took their place, flanking the standard of their company, long shields upon their left arms, leaf-headed spears in their right hands, swords and knives at their hips. They gave each other a knowing glance from beneath the brows of their silver helms.
‘It will be as we decided?’ said Lirieth.
‘It will,’ replied Hellebron.
‘What are you two whispering?’ asked Nhalek, the standard-bearer.
‘Khaine’s business,’ hissed Hellebron. ‘Mind your own.’
The company set off at a steady march, third in the column; the knights formed the vanguard, with a regiment of crossbows behind. Another four thousand Naggarothi followed, a winding snake with a spine of banners and silver spearpoints. There were no roads and the Naggarothi tramped through the long grass; the hems of their robes were soon soaking wet, boots slicked with mud.
Hellebron ignored the slapping of wet material against her legs and gripped her spearshaft tightly, hiding her excitement. If any day needed the spark of bloody spectacle, it was today.
It was mid-morning, as grey and lifeless as dawn, when the scouts returned with news that the orcs were leaving their encampment and moving westwards towards the coast. Bands of wolf-riding goblins prowled the wilderness, but they were incompetent pickets and the scouts had returned unseen. The greenskins were unaware of the army bearing down upon them.
The army was heartened by the news as it rippled through the ranks. Prince Malriad gave the order to increase the pace of the advance. The Naggarothi broke into a swift jog, the elves covering the ground with loping, easy strides, effortlessly negotiating the knots of bushes and undulations scattered across their path. The harnesses of the knights’ steeds jingled along with the knee-length mail coats of the infantry.
The rain stopped just before midday, though the sky was still overcast. The wind picked up the closer the host came to the coast, a westerly wind finally catching the flags and pennons, snapping them from their shafts while it tousled crests of blue and red and purple and black from the helmets of the elves.
The air was tinged with salt. Hellebron licked her lips, remembering the taste of blood. The ground was firmer underfoot, the mire of the wastelands giving way to rockier terrain. She saw the scouts galloping back from the south-west and it was not long before the clarions were ringing with the signal to break column and form the line for attack.
As the Naggarothi host spread to the north and south, Hellebron caught her first glimpse of the greenskin horde. The ground rose ahead and a sea of orcs and goblins thronged the slope. They clustered beneath crude standards made of skulls and bones. The largest orcs bustled through the horde, shouting and punching to establish their dominance.
Small goblins mounted on the backs of grey-furred wolves waited at the edge of the army, peering at the approaching elves from beneath fur-brimmed helms, their small fists nervously gripping the bent shafts of stone-tipped spears. More of the smallest greenskins were bullied into position at the front of the greenskin army, a ragtag mob wielding daggers, short swords, wooden clubs and round shields.
A change in the breeze brought the stench of the greenskins wafting over the elves. It was a wet mixture of dung, rotting offal and mulch, like the smell of an animal’s body left to the worms beneath a thick forest canopy. Hellebron barely reacted; she had drunk the blood of a dozen orcs and goblins and was all but immune to the disgusting taste. Around her, others were not so lucky; there were murmurs of distaste and snarled insults were spat at the filthy enemy.
At the heart of the opposing army several dozen burly orcs sat on the backs of immense boars. Their mounts were clad in scraps of spiked armour, jutting tusks sheathed with metal. The orcs wore crude jerkins of untanned hide, their green skin pocked with scars and marked with tattoos and warpaint. Angry red eyes glared at the elves; crude swords and brutal cleavers waved in defiance.
‘Look, trolls!’ Nhalek pointed to the south.
More than a dozen of the huge creatures ambled down the slope behind a mob of goblins. Each troll was thrice the height of an elf—five times that of a goblin—with a pot belly, short legs and gangling arms. Their skin was a deep greenish-blue, heads flat, ears long and tattered like a ragged parody of the elves’. The trolls wore scraps of cloth and random pieces of toughened leather, but their skin was harder than any armour the orcs could make. Clawed hands held up splintered tree-limbs and clubs made of bone studded with rivets.
At the rear of the orc army, a train of goblins was hauling a war machine into position. It was a laughably crude attempt at duplicating the catapults of the dwarfs. A ramshackle construction of red-daubed wood and splitting ropes, the stone-thrower looked as likely to fall to pieces as hurl a boulder. Under the lash of an orc overseer, the goblins hammered spikes into the ground to secure the engine, while others slowly winched down the throwing arm and yet more gathered together what rocks they could find for ammunition.
Hellebron caught a whisper travelling along the elf line from the south. A ripple of discontent swept through the ranks until it reached Hellebron’s company. The rumour was that the scouts had spotted a wyvern the night before, but today the huge creature was nowhere to be seen. Hellebron looked up and scoured the clouds for a sign of the half-dragon but saw nothing. Others were looking skywards too, uncomfortable at the thought of a wyvern dropping upon them unseen.
Not for the first time, Hellebron noticed how calm the army was before battle. While the orcs bustled and massed in anarchic fashion, the quiet ranks of elves waited patiently for the orders of their commander. Speartips made straight lines of silver, and shields created an unbreakable wall of black and red. The musicians sounded the commands, short blasts that readjusted the line as the orc army took shape, the regiments marching without haste into their new positions.
It was the calm before the storm, the cold hearth before the fire is lit.
For a moment Hellebron wondered what the greenskins were thinking, looking down the hill at the silent lines of warriors. She dismissed the thought; orcs and goblins were stupid creatures, incapable of acknowledging the majesty of the vision before them. They were equally incapable of knowing when they stared defeat in the face. Time and again the Naggarothi hosts had slain their armies and burned their barbaric villages, but still the greenskins tried to fight.
Violence was the only language they understood. They had to be made to understand: these lands belonged to the elves.
Drums rumbled through the orc and goblin horde. At first the beat was scattered, a noise without rhythm or purpose. Slowly the drums came together, banging out a slow beat which was picked up by the orcs with weapons on shields and stamping feet. Crude horns took up the call, brash and tuneless. The orcs added their voices, defying the elves with deep bellows while the screeches of the goblins cut across the bass chanting.
The beat gradually sped up, the chanting grew louder, the clamour washing down the hill in a vain attempt to intimidate the Naggarothi.
Prince Malriad broke from his knights, followed by the bearer of his personal standard. The two riders galloped along the line and took up a position facing the elf army. Malriad drew his sword, his black steed stamping and swaying.
‘We can do better than that!’ cried the prince.
‘For Aenarion!’ the elves called out in a single voice, bringing up spears and lances with a crash that momentarily eclipsed the banging and ranting of the greenskins.
‘For Prince Malekith!’
The thousands of warriors took a step, presenting their shields and spearpoints towards the orcs, the thud of feet shaking the ground.
‘For Nagarythe!’
This last was a deafening roar, a challenge cried from the throat of every Naggarothi.
Not to be outdone, the orcs increased their clamour, howling and shouting in their guttural language, no doubt hurling insults and making empty boasts. Their leaders, huge creatures taller and broader than the elves, stomped up and down in front of their subordinates, baring their long fangs and snarling.
Perhaps overcome by fear or excitement, the crew of the stone-thrower unleashed their war engine. Its arm snapped forwards. A cloud of fist-sized rocks arced into the air. Thousands of eyes from both armies followed their path.
With an explosion of mud, the stones fell to the ground at least a hundred paces short of the elven line. The wind carried Naggarothi laughter up to the orcs, infuriating them even more. The most unruly mobs headed down the slope, lumbering towards the elven line. Fearing to be left behind, other warbands hurried after until the whole greenskin army was on the move, pouring haphazardly down the slope.
With a flourish of his blade, Malriad rode back to his knights. The slap of ropes announced the firing of the bolt-throwers. Spears sped across the narrowing gap as dark blurs. Where they hit, orcs were flung back into the ranks following, spitted by the barbed shafts.
Hellebron caught Lirieth’s eye and the two sisters nodded to each other. The battle was about to begin in earnest and their opportunity would soon be lost.
The two sisters broke from the front rank of the company and walked purposefully towards the onrushing greenskins. Lirieth brought out a phial of deep red liquid and took a mouthful before passing it to Hellebron. She swallowed the rest of the drug-laced blood and tossed aside the crystal bottle. The ireleaf and venomblossom worked immediately, sending a thrill of energy through her. Her pulse raced and her breath came in gasps as the narcotic potion coursed through her system.
The Daughters of Murder cast aside their shields and spears as an astounded whispering gripped the Naggarothi army. They shed their mail coats and tossed away their helmets. Buckling their weapon belts around their semi-naked bodies, the sisters drew their swords and daggers and turned to face their comrades.
‘We need no altar to make sacrifice to Khaine,’ Lirieth called out. ‘This battlefield shall be our temple. Our war cries shall be our litany. To slay is to pray!’
‘You call us the Daughters of Murder,’ shouted Hellebron. ‘Today we offer our blood and spirit to Khaine and dedicate ourselves to the Lord of Death alone. We shall be the Brides of Khaine.’
There were laughs and a few disparaging remarks from the incredulous Naggarothi. Hellebron glared at the army, bared her teeth and snarled.
‘Let there be no doubt that we are Khaine’s chosen,’ said Lirieth. ‘We will not shelter behind shields or clad ourselves in armour, for if Khaine desires our blood, He is free to take it! Our blades shall be our defence, as Khaine teaches us. Kill and not be killed, that is the truth of Khaine.’
A lone figure broke from the lines and hurried towards the pair. It was Lethruis, swathed in a bloodstained robe. His face was twisted with rage as he bore down on the two sisters.
‘This is a disgrace!’ he snarled. ‘Cease this disrespect immediately.’
‘It is you who are the disgrace!’ shouted Hellebron.
Lirieth sheathed her weapons and seized Lethruis. The priest struggled but Lirieth’s grip was like iron as she forced him to his knees in the mud. Hellebron sprang forwards, her knife stopping a hair’s breadth from Lethruis’s throat. The priest fell still, terrified eyes fixed on Hellebron. The other acolytes ran from the army, crying out in dismay.
‘Come no closer!’ warned Hellebron.
‘Who here would risk the displeasure of Khaine?’ Lirieth cried out. ‘Who amongst the Naggarothi would turn their back on He who blessed Aenarion and has laid the gift of death into our hands?’
‘What are you doing?’ The demand came from Prince Malriad. The commander rode up to the group and swung down from his horse, one hand moving to the hilt of his sword. ‘It is you who dare Khaine’s wrath by laying hands on His priest.’
‘He is no true adept of Khaine.’ Hellebron poured all her scorn into every word. She raised her voice so that the closest warriors could hear. ‘In every battle, we lay our lives upon the edge of Khaine’s blade while Lethruis and his cronies look on.’
‘It is time that changed,’ said Lirieth. ‘Khaine demands sacrifice and all we offer Him is the sour blood of goblins and the filth of beastmen.’
‘This is madness,’ said Lethruis. ‘The enemy are almost upon us.’
‘There is no victory without Khaine’s blessing,’ said Hellebron. ‘Did not Aenarion lay himself before the judgement of Khaine when he took up the Widowmaker?’
‘We offer you a choice, priest,’ said Lirieth. ‘Your promises to Khaine must be fulfilled. Did you not say that we all pray to give up ourselves in Khaine’s name, upon the field of bloodshed? Take up a blade now and fight for the glory of Khaine and Nagarythe, or we shall offer up your blood to him this moment!’
‘You are insane, both of you,’ wailed Lethruis. ‘I cannot fight!’
‘No, you cannot,’ said Malriad. ‘You demand our obedience and offer up prayers to Khaine on our behalf. The Brides of Khaine are right; we have no need for you. The blood on our blades is offering enough.’
Hellebron looked up in surprise. Though the drugs fogged her brain, she sensed opportunity, greater than any she had hoped to create. She had thought that Lethruis would either fight—and die, for he had no skill at arms—or she would kill him herself. Here was an even better solution.
‘You are our commander, the wielder of this army, the weapon of Khaine,’ said Hellebron, thrusting her knife into her belt to place a hand on the prince’s breastplate. She could hear the orcs pounding closer. Arrows cut the air from both armies and the shouts of the wounded joined the bellows of the greenskins.
‘Quickly, now, our brave prince!’ Lirieth snapped, guessing her sister’s intent. ‘Renew your pledges to Khaine with the blood of this coward and lead your army to victory.’
